Chapter Seven (Continued): The Sixth Blade
Kael unsheathed Veilrend.
It whispered as it left its scabbard—no roar, no crackling power—just a clean, cold sound. Like air parting for a blade it remembered. The silver-steel shimmered in the hazy Vale light, runes along the flat of it glowing faintly with every breath Kael took.
Andrew watched, unreadable.
He lifted his own sword with one hand—an unadorned longsword, no glowing runes, no flicker of enchantment. Its blade was dark, almost black, worn from use. Yet it thrummed with presence, as if the world itself leaned away from it in recognition.
"Don't hold back," Kael said, sliding into a stance that felt both instinctive and unfamiliar—the stance from the memory Veilrend had shown him.
Andrew didn't answer. He moved.
One blink—and he was gone.
Kael barely got Veilrend up in time to deflect a blow that felt like it came from above, below, and within all at once. Sparks erupted as their blades kissed, and Kael was flung backwards into the dirt, breath crushed from his lungs.
Andrew didn't follow up. He waited.
Kael climbed to his feet, coughing, dazed—but something in him surged. A pull. Not from his arms or legs, but from Veilrend itself. He attacked.
He came in low, then swept wide, a crescent arc meant to draw Andrew's guard—but Andrew didn't block. He stepped inside it, faster than Kael could follow, and tapped the flat of his sword against Kael's ribs.
"Dead."
Kael spun, adjusted, swung harder.
Andrew parried once. Then again. Then flipped Veilrend from Kael's hands with an effortless flick of the wrist.
Kael dropped to one knee, growling.
"Are you reading my mind?" he snapped.
Andrew tilted his head. "No. You're just loud."
They went again.
Kael tried speed. Failed.
Tried unpredictability. Failed.
Tried raw anger. Failed worse.
Each time, Andrew moved like water—no wasted motion, no expression, just precise, practiced skill that had nothing to prove.
Kael was left bruised, winded, and panting on the ground.
He didn't get up this time.
For a long moment, Andrew stood still, saying nothing.
But Kael looked up, blood on his lip, and said, "If I can hit you once… will you train me?"
Andrew raised an eyebrow. "That's a low bargain."
Kael coughed a laugh. "I know."
Andrew paused, then nodded once. "One strike. Clean. You land it—I'll give you my time. One month. No more.
Kael rose.
This time, he didn't charge.
He closed his eyes.
And listened.
The Vale whispered. His heart slowed. Veilrend no longer buzzed—it breathed. Its will touched his own, not with command, but with invitation. Something changed in his grip. In his posture. Not memory now.
Instinct.
When he opened his eyes, the world had sharpened. Andrew was no longer untouchable—he was just fast. Mortal. A man. And Kael didn't need to match him.
He just needed one opening.
They moved at the same time.
Andrew struck low. Kael dropped to a slide, letting Veilrend scrape along the ground in a blinding arc of silver light. Sparks sprayed like fireflies. Andrew deflected it—but just slightly off.
Kael twisted. Spun.
Tapped the edge of Veilrend to Andrew's shoulder.
Not a wound. Not a slash. But contact. Clean.
The world froze.
Andrew stepped back. Looked at the mark.
Nodded.
"Month starts now."